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Yolanda Garcia does not like kids.
They're sticky, they're stupid, and they cost so, so much money. Too much money. Money that could be spent at that new burrito place around the block. Or vibrators. Or that new burrito place and then a vibrator.
So then how can she explain this weird feeling in her chest whenever she sees you around kids these days?
It started with her niece and nephew. It wasn't the first time you'd met her family, but it was the first time you'd ever met her brother's kids.
She wasn't originally too concerned whether or not you got along with her family. If they couldn't see how perfect you were, that was their problem, not hers. Still, there was a warm flutter in her chest when you kneeled down in front of the five- and seven-year old's, your voice bright and warm, yet somehow still natural. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't a bit surprised at how quickly they took to you. Her niece became your little best friend in under an hour, obsessed with following you around Garcia's brother's house the entire evening. Her nephew showed you his many collections of toy cars, rocks from the backyard, and plastic dinosaurs, boldly fighting every adult around for your attention and tugging at your clothes when you dared to speak or even look at anyone other than him.
Again, she didn't particularly care if you and her folks got along. She didn't usually bring her girlfriends around, but she knew whether or not they got along with you, that the two of you would be in it for the long hall.
But if she didn't care, why did it warm her cold, dead heart when her brother texted the group chat asking if you'd ever be available to babysit, joking about how in love his kids were with you?
She justified it to herself. If she loved you, obviously her family would too. Duh.
That's all.
Only, that reasoning couldn't hold up when she'd seen you comforting a little girl, no older than five, who came in with her mother after an accident. She only caught glimpses of you as she assessed the girl's mother.
She saw how you stayed by her side the entire time, holding her hand, rubbing her back, letting her rest her weary little head on your lap once she'd tired herself out. It made her heart squeeze, her sweet sweet girl. That was what it was! Of course, you're a nurse, so of course it'd bring her comfort knowing you have basic human empathy. Silly Garcia, that's what it was.
I mean, she didn't feel the same tightness in her chest when she saw you treating and comforting an elderly man, but, c'mon . . . they're gross. But that rhetoric didn't hold up either, not when she saw you and that damn baby in peds.
During most of the day, she'd intentionally been avoiding looking at the infamous Baby Jane Doe. It had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with surgery, and, at least she'd hoped, nothing to do with your relationship.
Of course, poor Garcia would eventually be proven wrong. She hadn't even meant to look the way of the infant. She wouldn't have. But she saw your cute pink undershirt dart into the room, an obvious contrast to the dreary, dark colors typically worn by almost everyone else in the ED. She almost mis-stepped when she saw you cradling the babe to your chest. Almost froze on the spot at the look on your face, that soft content smile directed at the sweet little infant. Almost clutched her chest when she saw that smile stretch into an adorable giggle. She thinks, in the back of her mind, that you look like you were meant to hold babies, that you'd make a great mom. Then she shoves that thought even deeper and shivers. She sounded like a man. Yuck.
So yeah, Yolanda Garcia does not like kids.
They're loud, they're dirty, and they cost a lot of money.
Yet here she is, mentally calculating whether IFV, donation, or adoption would be the better financial option for the two of you, let alone marriage and a house. She's still thinking about those burritos and vibrators, though.
That's non-negotiable.
It's such a shock to her core that it's still on her mind hours later, the two of you sharing a bath in her apartment. She thinks you're so soft like this, your hair up and your skin slick with rose-scented bubbles, both of your bellies full of delicious, salty ramen. It's all she can think about, her larger hands making soft massaging movements along your body. It's not something you miss.
"You're so quiet, Yoyo. What's up?"
Your soft voice echoes out in the bathroom, your hand reaching back and finding her neck. Your hand gently strokes the taut skin of her neck, your fingers leaving warm trails across her shoulders. She hums into your skin, her nose barely grazing your flesh.
"Jeez, you ED freaks get a minute of silence and you go insane." She teases. You know she doesn't mean it, not really. Well, maybe for your coworkers, but not you. Some of your favorite moments are the quiet ones shared between you. When she lifts her face from between your thighs and the two of you bathe in a comforting afterglow. When you're rubbing her tense shoulders, working tight knots from her back and neck. When you're washing each other's hair, taking turns untangling each other's curls and taking the time to moisturize each other's scalps.
And anyways, she knows as well as you do her mouth is typically running at a mile a minute.
That's why you readjust, your hand tightening around the back of her neck, your hand under the water finding her thigh. You hum, but don't let up, flicking a drop of water at her face.
She responds in turn with a bigger splash, careful not to let the sudsy water get into your mouth or eyes.
"Grow up!"
"You first."
"Whatever." You chuckle, relaxing back into her chest. Her arms wrap back around your midsection, her hands still against your soft tummy. Your hands lie over hers, your fingers gently tapping against the back of her hand.
"I'm serious Yo. What's going on in that big head of yours?" She pinches you, but relents after a long minute.
With a sigh she finally answers. "Just thinkin' about us. About the . . . future, I guess."
"What do you mean?" You ask softly. She could kick herself when she hears that worried tinge in your question. She feels you shift in her arms, your torso turning to face her better, the water sloshing around in the tub.
Despite wanting to quell your concerns, she knew, despite her flagrant emotional constipation, that it was best to tread lightly. She raised one hand to your shoulder, holding you closer to her chest.
"It's nothing bad." She huffs, an almost-laugh to release tension. "I was just thinking, what if you started staying here?" She says it like it's a hypothetical, like it's a song or a movie scene she can't get out of her head. Maybe it's because she means it as a joke. More than likely it's to protect herself if you say no.
"I . . . do? I stay here all the time. I'm literally spending the night, right now." You question, looking at her over your shoulder. It's perhaps a bit obtuse, but not unintentionally. You shift again in the tub, rubbing her arms but pulling them away to face her better.
In any lesser situation, or with anyone else, Garcia wouldn't tolerate it. But because it's you, because she knows you value openness and honesty, she takes a breath, scrunches her face, and finally lets herself be a little bit genuine. Just a little.
"I mean . . . permanently. I want you to move in with me."
A part of Yolanda desperately wants to cringe, wants to fall into a hole. God, the only thing that could make it worse is if the next words to come out of your mouth are anything other than "Oh Yoyo, I thought you'd never ask!" or "Really, you mean it? Oh, Yolanda, I'd be so happy to! Let's get married and have Chinese food and wine-coolers!"
"Oh. Where's this coming from?"
God, that might be worse than if you'd just rejected the idea. Now she has to let you crack open her chest cavity, let you dig your little fingers around in her brain and find out everything she tries so hard to keep buried deep.
Yolanda feels her stomach flip. The only thing she dislikes more than children is being emotionally present. She runs her tongue over her teeth, before pursing her lips. She bows her head down resting in the crook of your neck, and lets out another huffy little chuckle. She rests there, her forehead resting on your shoulder. Even this is humiliating.
Normally she's Yolanda Garcia: hotshot surgery fellow with a future so bright it's blinding, and the skills to back up her cockiness.
But around you she's Yoyo: Cutie-patootie-pie, fast food loving girlfriend who sneezes too loud and comes into the bathroom to pee when you're showering.
"Why are you doing this to me?" She whines half-heartedly, shaking her head as she reclines in the tub. As cute as you find her pout, enough to press a little pec to her lips, you know that this is more than a two minute conversation brewing.
"Because I love you. Now quit bitching and spit it out." You joke, a warm, comforting smile gracing your features in the low light. You were right when you suggested taking baths together, especially with the room being candle lit like this. Yolanda laughs, fully, before taking a deep breath and resting her hands on your hips below the water.
"I've just . . . I keep seeing all these signs. That you're meant to be here. That you're meant to be mine." She says through tight lips, her eyes flicking around your face, scanning for any possible sign that you might not feel the same way she does. But, at the same time, she says it with such conviction it feels like fact. Her eyes flick away, giving herself a split-second of reprieve before forcing herself to focus on you. Mama didn't raise a wimp. Emotionally reserved to the point of controversy? Sure. But never a wimp.
"Like what?" You question, your lids lowering in an attempt to conceal your giddiness. Yolanda swears the noise of the room gets quieter and quieter with each passing moment, like the world is focusing in on your relationship.
"Like . . . when we're having dinner at home and you feel comfortable enough to put your feet up on the coffee table." She says slowly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, just in front of your ear, her lips tickled by the stray curls south of your temple.
"Or when we both decide to stay in for the night because the idea of going out for date night feels repulsive." Her kiss drops lower, her lips against your jaw, her nose tickling your skin.
"Or . . . when I see you with my family, getting along with them the same way you do with me, even though they're all terrible." That gets a laugh from you. It's only emphasized by a kiss to your throat, your neck sensitive enough for it to send a shiver down your spine.
"They're not so bad. They're just . . . like you, Yoyo." It receives another pinch, this time to the soft side of your stomach. She doesn't feel better having said it out loud. She's fairly certain she'll throw up and willingly drown herself in this tub if you say anything other than a confirmation of her feeling soon. But at least she can die knowing she finally got it out.
"So . . ." You start, a hand reaching over your shoulder to find her neck. "What I'm hearing is that you love me, and that you're in love with me. You want to move onto the next step in our relationship. And that you want to spend the foreseeable future with me."
It's teasing when you say it and the both of you know it, despite the soft, sweet way you deliver it. And despite the utterly disgusted look on her face, you both know that you've got her spot on.
"Well . . . I did," She retorts, her voice slow and deep in her throat, like she's swallowing something back. "Until you put it like that. Now I'm having second thoughts-"
Her stupid grumbling is cut off by a kiss, your lip plush and warm against hers. Her arms tighten around your midsection, one hand gliding up your sternum to cup your jaw. Your lips dance, moving smoothly with one another in the dark, steamy room. She moans against you when you pulls away, a rare instance of vulnerability she'd refused to share with previous girlfriends.
Your eyes find each other, a deep focus shared between the two of you. Suddenly the feeling in her stomach worsens for a instance, before completely disappearing. You shift around in the tub, your chests pressed together and your hands on her cheeks. Your voice sounds like her favorite song when your smile moves to form words.
"Do you want to rent the U-Haul or should I?"